Posts Tagged ‘America’

My country tis of theeadmits the Army shielded wild Barbie,offers regrets to the French, reports the WASHINGTON POST sometime in the 19 Eighties. Lurid tales we seek as truth. Late blooming never the sole criteria for liberal v. conservative failurelying wide-eyed tribute on Federal district sidewalk, some sunbleached sign of the elephant, Reckoncharmers sigh, chalk up another marble, another favorable position, another power lunch then a movie, maybe an opera composed for three. "Who needs the Americans?"a bald-headed Indonesian policeman indulges in politics,the American way of democracy retracts yet another remarknow sold as antique jewelry to Easter chicks. An obese femme,garbed in African swank wearing three wristwatches on each armwaddles with her two sophisticated poodles, one named Adverb,the other No Way, each tugging at its chic fluorescent(check for spelling and decimal point errors)lime leash, no shifty stereotype here, just eyeballing like primitive intergalactic astronautsthe obvious. Sensing a sneer I duckinto a clothier's for a fresh pair of socks, and a swim. Mine stank of summer syntax. War famine was next in line.

"Why apologize with regrets during a great afternoon like this?" goofs some vital standby officer of chimera, blowing sweatthrough a polished bugle, a bugle he found in a garbage bin outside the Pentagon fringe, and lapping in the express lane at an ice cream cone, dual unnamed flavors, the eyewitness said. "It's not like it's the end of time!" says another, posing with a cardboard zipper, bound for political access,ever the angry gay blade strapped for cash. Name must remain anonymous and rashduring our lifetime due to a computer foulup, a crashor a chip off the old block where we rolled drunks for rockbottoms and banquet foam, but fate in a handbasket is cruelinking sad where they fell prophecies the way it explains the rulecoz if'n I read my cards correctly, foul play's not even considered an alternative lifestyle to those breeds, nor of troops, and three squares configure scales too fussyoff the calloused side of the thumb to blame Dick's dog. Or Tom Paine.

This is America the Beautiful Swan type!Juggling outside chances the ugly and faint of bosom rejectthis effort at grip, open cells and prickly pears, the perfect girlywoman waiting & knocking on wood for the perfect agency to invent herpeeling to reveal another strata, another compass, another grimact of nature striking pose off nuclear physics and mortuary skimpoised to strip down the hungry Brass Madonna's wet clothes and heap fixes of a linear paraphenaliac's basic whim,quite sure broads the bored way straight to the center swimupstream even less funny to that green collar'd fraternity crate looped within those smoking porkbarrels squirming close to the edge locked in greed-conditioned theocratic boardroom halls gull graypun free spinning within an enriched whiskey culled earshotof others grinning just like them. Where am I? unbuckled shouts the penny-wise pope, pouts this poet looking trickledin this momentary picture of modernized rot without a bull's eye shot at decent wage or freedom to decay?"Show me a capitalist, and I'll show you a dollar!" This I heard a bum in the busy street to holler.

Jazzy corporations sing of their duefar more frequently and sanctimoniouslythan revealing their own larded backyards girded with jargonistic creeds,painting the bones of the working breedsset free by a law whose spirit's in shardsnever to open a door for the beauty of fair gain where responsibility evasion suits up bringing bitter rainthe tears of whole industry cuts.

Escaping to alien sandsto other sites as working class soldiers toss architectural crumbs to childrenin hopes of a better day.

This is America the Ugly Duckling hype!Felonious jungle gyms set in concrete, shrieks & blood, billionsof half-baked beans, energy levels, kilowatts raised on special G-forces bilked to protect her shining shores from feigned foreign invasiona trick of fate which seldom shakes the rich guard of daylight,and wicked lines around city blocks fumbling for hot checksand balances in nothing but heinous expenses, flesh floating a kitechasing pale the rider stale. But the foray descends as nocturnal homes in flight beneath shrill wraps of free lunch gain produce nothing short of pathological overbite.

We laugh out of sheer geometry,absorbed in a crackling worth, our capacityfor sweet shock stilled for camera shotsand misfitted shoes of fortune gaping a t the nakedgrizzled flesh, shoving it across in publicbodies of water and wine and mud...

We drop our coininto each inverting slot,pulling a bag behind the bushes,a bag actively malevolent, still cruisingour crusted minds like a decadewe forgot to peel.

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Quoth the Raven

"Intellectual economics guarantees that even the most powerful and challenging work cannot protect itself from the order of fashion. Becoming-fashion, becoming-commodity, becoming-ruin. Such instant, indeed retroactive ruins, are the virtual landscape of the stupid underground. The exits and lines of flight pursued by Deleuze and Guattari are being shut down and rerouted by the very people who would take them most seriously."